


Songbird

by verdantspace



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Tim Drake, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Mild warning for, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 15:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16121411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verdantspace/pseuds/verdantspace
Summary: Red—something in Jason’s brain dubs the girl as so—laughs as a response to whatever the bartender had said, a single tingling sound that has an undertone of huskiness to it. Upon the sound, Jason’s body goes rigid. He’d recognize that laugh anywhere. It’s a sound that he hears all too often when belts, buckles, and bat symbols and are put aside for a night. Or when it’s just the two of them on a nondescript rooftop, the smell of smoke from Jason’s cigarette clinging onto Tim’s uniform like a permanent stain.Or: Dick, Jason, and Damian unintentionally barge in on Tim'shoneypotmission.Or: the many facets of Tim Drake, as seen through Jason's eyes.





	Songbird

**Author's Note:**

> Oh thank lord I managed to finish this one omg pls let me extend an apology abt omega elite verse :(( I’m in a rly bad slump w/ that one but I miss writing batboys sf much like u wouldn’t believe,,,, working on this one was an absolute delight. This is my second time focusing on Jason’s pov n ngl, I had FUN!! Idk abt u guys but I just feel like his narrative would be a chaotic blend of metaphors, euphemisms, and plain ol’ _fuck all,_ much like how I’ve written it for this fic :")) God I can only hope that I did my baby justice,,,,, deepest apologies beforehand *sliding _dogeza*._ Oh and I wasn’t kidding when I said I missed these boys like MAD hh writing them truly feels like coming home.
> 
> W/o further ado, pls enjoy this hastily written apology :D

When Jason walks into the pub, it’s with every intention of getting Damian drunk enough to recite Arabian nursery rhymes in the middle of the dance floor. Okay, maybe not to that extent—this pub doesn’t have a dance floor, anyway—but Jason aims to put some measure of fun into Damian’s frigid bones, which obviously involves teaching him how to get properly _wasted._ The kid has just turned legal last week, and Jason can’t believe that he has to be the one to break him in, because useless B and Dick won’t take responsibility of the fuckin’ brat.

Speaking of: Dick tags along under the guise of _adult supervision,_ but Jason doubts that he’s going to stick to that role after a glass or ten. Jason points it out as they settle into their table—a moderately secluded corner table with ample view of the bar and the tiny stage—and Dick only shoots him a grin in return, one that’s both transparent and obscure. Dick Grayson’s specialty.

“Too bad Timmy can’t join us,” Dick mourns, sinking into the plush of his seat. “It’s not the same without him here.”

“Drake is busy with the girls,” Damian scoffs, “I cannot believe he forgoes a night out with us to pursue an investigation. I thought he’s discarded his tendency to overwork for good.”

The annoyance in his tone would do a great job of masking the hints of worry if Damian was talking to any other person. Jason, however, sees through the front as though it was made up of a thin strip of gauze. This attitude is, admittedly, the other reason why Jason longs to put alcohol into Damian’s system: to make him a tad more honest.

“Leave ‘im to it, guys,” Jason says, reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Babybird’s still an overachieving bastard, but at least he knows his limits. He ain’t stupid, y’know.”

“I’m _not_ insinuating that—”

“I know, Dami,” Dick cuts in, directing an amiable smile Damian’s way. “Let’s just let him be, yeah? Tim needs to be left to his own devices sometimes, and that’s more than okay. God knows the concept of space is a rarity in the cave.”

Damian still has a little furrow between his eyebrows, but the discussion is dropped once Jason suggests that they order their drinks.

They settle into more comfortable topics once the drinks arrive; Bruce’s disgustingly domestic antics with Selina, Jason’s plan on donating some of his paperbacks, and even the late Pennyworth the cat’s little kittens, which have all grown into maturity. Jason has no idea how Damian keeps up with each and every one of them.

Within their quaint little space, banters are exchanged along with laughter. Jason allows himself a solemn, private smile that actually reaches his eyes. They’re a far cry from being ideal, with the heaps of baggage that have accumulated along the years, but hanging out with his brothers without the burden of a mission looming behind their backs is actually kind of fun. Taking another swig from his beer, he decides to enjoy the night and let loose.

Absently, Jason looks to his right and catches movement to from the corner of his eye. It’s a girl, one who stands at approximately 5’5”, with fiery red hair that reaches the dip of her waist, and rice-pale skin. From his vantage point, Jason can see that she’s wearing a fleece cardigan that’s clearly too large for her frame, the material covering her upper body down to midthighs. She’s talking to an older woman—a bartender, judging from her uniform—who is completely under redhead’s spell. She’s listening to whatever the redhead is saying with fond eyes, adoration evident on her expression.

Red—something in Jason’s brain dubs the girl as so—laughs as a response to whatever the bartender had said, a single tingling sound that has an undertone of huskiness to it. Upon the sound, Jason’s body goes rigid. He’d recognize that laugh _anywhere._ It’s a sound that he hears all too often when belts, buckles, and bat symbols and are put aside for a night. Or when it’s just the two of them on a nondescript rooftop, the smell of smoke from Jason’s cigarette clinging onto Tim’s uniform like a permanent stain.

(Despite all that, he’s the only one who’s never commented on Jason’s smoking habit.)

As if sensing the presence of disruption in the room, Red lets her—his, fuck, her, Jason isn’t fucking _sure_ —laugh trail off into a sigh. Slender fingers move to tuck a lock of red hair behind an ear, and he uses the gesture as an excuse to swivel his head to where Jason is sitting.

There’s no mistaking those eyes, and Jason begrudgingly praises Tim’s acting skills when instead of looking annoyed beyond belief (which is the default Tim reaction to unwanted variables making their way into his missions), Tim paints an expression of pleasant surprise on his visage. His face breaks into the sweetest grin that Jason has ever seen on him, so when Tim waves at him with a bashful smile, Jason’s automated response is to wave back.

The bartender notices, because she eyes the exchange with barely concealed amusement. Her voice is a pleasant timbre when she remarks, “oh, Thea,” —an amused laugh, “someone you know?”

“Something of that sort,” Tim—Thea, _holy shit that’s a pretty name,_ Jason’s mind supplies unhelpfully—answers, steals glances at Jason before ducking his head. Locks of red hair fall in front of his face, and he moves to tuck the strands behind an ear. Jason keeps watching as he does so, recognizing it as a habit that always resurfaces whenever Tim’s hair gets too fucking long—again—and he’s too much of a lazy bum to get it trimmed.

And yet, somehow, in that getup and in this backdrop, it looks so _different._

“Go get ‘im, girl,” the bartender encourages, nudging Thea on the arm. When given a hesitant look in reply, the bartender laughs and shakes her head. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I have to prepare for my shift, anyway. Go on and greet your boy.”

The woman doesn’t bother to keep her voice down when she leans forward to speak into Tim’s ear, because Jason can hear it perfectly when she stage-whispers: “He’s hot, darling. Wouldn’t mind seeing him on the regular, if you know what I mean.”

In response, Tim giggles and whispers something back. Jason can’t quite catch what it is this time, but he has an idea of it when Tim slash Thea hops off the stool and starts straightening the wrinkles on his dress—oh, he’s wearing a dress under that cardigan, a simple one piece that reaches the tops of his knees—eyes flickering to where Jason is practically glued to his seat.

“Excuse me, Wanda,” he says, and the way he moves to casually touch the bartender’s cheek with fluttering fingers has an air of innocence to it. This persona he’s walking around in—this _Thea_ —is unlike anything Jason had ever seen Tim wear.

Tim walks to where they’re seated, his gait lighter than usual. Jason grinds his teeth together when he finally reaches their table.

“Boys,” he greets, and now that he’s close enough, Jason can observe him more clearly. His pleasant smile has a certain edge to it, tightening his jaw in a way that most people would miss. Not Jason; and not Dick nor Damian, what with the way their eyes go wide with recognition, loose disposition shifting into alertness in mere nanoseconds.

Bat-fucking-training.

“Smile,” Tim murmurs as he settles uninvited into an empty seat at their table, voice airy and cutting. His painted fingernails, neatly trimmed and glossy, are drumming against the tabletop. Jason follows the movement as though it would pose potential hazard. “Smile and act pleasantly surprised.”

Dick is the first to snap out of his daze. He flashes Tim a big smile, cranking up the boy-next-door charm to a maximum for whatever reason, and says, “Evening, pretty bird,” —which, thankfully, is an actual nickname he uses for Tim, so it doesn’t give Jason that much of a whiplash. “You look gorgeous tonight, even more than usual.”

To any other person, Dick’s words would have been taken as genuine compliment, albeit a little greasy. But Jason knows that they’re codeword for: _why the hell are you dressed like that is it a mission what’s the endgame._

Jason pinches his own thigh to hide a slack-jawed expression when Tim averts his gaze, a rosy flush settling on his cheeks. He curls his lips around a bashful smile and blinks slowly, a poster definition of Lucie Manette in all her angelic glory. If Jason wasn’t trained in basic acting skills—Alfred had been quite adamant in instilling the art of pretend into Bruce’s prodigies—he’s pretty sure that he’d gawk.

All of them can act quite well, but this is taking it to another level. You can’t fake a blush, right? Or can you?

Jason’s so busy twirling his thoughts around that he almost misses it when Tim replies to Dick. “Stop it,” he reprimands, laying a casual tap on Dick’s forearm. “Need to doll up a little ‘cause I’m performing tonight.” When his eyes slide over to Jason and Damian, there’s a hopeful gleam in them. “You’re gonna stay and watch, aren’t you?”

 _Performing,_ Jason thinks hysterically. He’s pretty sure that this pub isn’t the kind to offer _that_ kind of service, but he might be mistaken. He’s not sure about _anything_ right now, he thinks as he stares at Thea-not-Tim, who’s still looking up at him with an expectant gaze.

Putting all of his worries in the backburner, he turns to Tim and says, “Yea, sure.” He plasters what he hopes is a reassuring smile on his face. “What time are you on, sugar?”

The pet name slides off his mouth without so much as a hitch, surprising even himself. Tim doesn’t seem put off by it, only smiles and says: “About an hour from now, actually. I just need to change and touch up a little.” His eyes shine with remembrance when he makes eye contact with all of them. “I’ve just had my dressing room remade, tidied up a bit here n’ there. I can give you a tour, if you’d like?”

Jason doesn’t let the guileless act fool him. No matter if Tim is wrapped in an unfamiliar getup, giving off a different air, because the undercurrent of his voice is still the same. The slightly icy, stringent tone that’s imbued into his speech when he’s in work mode remains unchanging.

That wasn’t a request, Jason realizes. It’s a _demand._

This person in front of him—this is definitely _Tim Drake_ talking.

Relocating from their table is a quiet affair, with the rest of the bats following Tim with uncharacteristic obedience. Vaguely, Jason feels a moment of disconnect when they reach what appears to be the backstage area. It’s a dimly lit hallway with various doors on each sides. They proceed to walks past some of them until finally coming to a stop in front of the one labeled with ‘Thea.’

Jason, with no little amount of amusement and incredulity, notes the little sparkly star that decorates the end of her name. He wonders if Tim tacked it on himself.

“Mikey,” Tim calls, and his voice is so fucking different that Jason is tempted to check if the lace collar circling his neck is equipped with some kind of voice modulator. “Will you be a dear and tell Papa that I’ll be entertaining some guests for a while?” His painted nails are a fascinating contrast to Jason’s brown bomber jacket. “Won’t take too long, I promise.”

“Will do, Thea,” the burly man called Mikey answers, and then his eyes slide to where Jason, Dick, and Damian are flocking just behind him. With a mock serious tone of voice, he says, “remember, girl, no marks.”

Jason gives a pause when the implication sinks in, almost obeys the urge to snap and negate this _stranger_ of whatever perversion he’s cooked up in his head. He’s not sure where the defensiveness comes from—maybe it’s fueled by all the riddles and conundrums the night has tossed at him so far.

Before he can do so, Tim laughs. It’s a tingling, airy sound that crawls down Jason’s spine. “Nowhere visible, honey,” he purrs, throwing a wink before digging his claws into Jason’s bicep, guiding him towards a secluded room that serves as Thea’s private quarters.

Dick and Damian follow without a word, subconsciously instilling their bat-stillness.

“So,” Tim drops the persona as soon as they’re in the privacy of Thea’s changing room. He directs his sharp, arctic blue gaze on his brothers. “Wanna tell me what you guys are doing here?”

Dick practically balks. “We should be the ones asking you that, Tim. You’re— what are you doing, exactly?”

“I told you that I’ve been busy with the Birds, didn’t I,” Tim supplies, walking further into the room to sit in front of a vanity mirror. “ _This_ is the business.”

Tim’s hand reaches under the table, and the numerous lightbulbs that surround the perimeter of the mirror light up simultaneously. Under the intense lighting, Jason can finally see the hints of makeup on Tim’s face; the thinly applied foundation, shadows of contour that serve to soften the lines of his face, and hints of concealer under his eyes, hiding huge circles that always seem to be present.

“Are you working as a—a call gi—”

“Don’t hurt yourself, Dami,” Tim chuckles as he picks up a large fluffy brush and a round container. “And no, it’s not that. Technically, I’m a bar singer. Pub singer, whatever.”

That doesn’t make it any less weird, and Jason honestly can’t help himself.

“So... you sing?”

Tim swivels around to look at him, mouth hanging open. He closes it again when he finally nods, but he still looks like he actually expected more from Jason.

“Yes, Jay, that’s the general idea,” Tim supplies, “I also entertain some VIP guests, but other than that, it’s business as usual.”

The sentence implies that Tim has some kind of guideline to follow during his honeypot missions, and Jason has a moment of dissociation.

Tim has returned his attention back to the mirror, intent on continuing his makeup routine. He dips the big brush into the container to pick up some product. The way he moves indicates experience and precision, and Jason wonders who he has learned it from.

“Go ahead with the questions, guys,” he urges, tapping the brush so that light colored particles swirl around the air like snow, their dance visible under the lightbulbs’ harsh glare. “I can multitask.”

He proceeds to make light dabbing motions, pressing the powder into skin and making it look pale and flawless; even more so than Tim’s naturally light complexion.

“Who’s the mark?” Dick’s voice cuts through the silence, and Jason hears the slight tremor in the quality of it. He can empathize.

“Andrej Perkins a.k.a Papa,” Tim answers, setting down the brush to pick up another one. This one is slimmer, looks kind of stabby, and Jason wonders what it’s for. “He runs this pub’s entertainment section, which includes its singers, dancers, and sex workers. The problem is, some of them have been complaining of losing consciousness in the middle of the job. On worst occasions, some of them don’t even remember taking up Johns, but they wake up in an empty bed feeling tired and worn, a bundle of cash on the bedside.”

“LSD,” Jason almost snarls. It isn’t an official, bat-approved gig, but in the recent years, The Red Hood has been keeping moderate-to-minimum surveillance on prostitution businesses all throughout Gotham. The work is part of his routine, so most of Gotham already know who to face if a brothel house—or any variation of business that capitalizes on prostitution—dares to break Red Hood’s set of rules. In Jason’s opinion, they aren’t terribly hard to follow. Red Hood lets things slide as long as the workers are treated fairly, and the owners keep proper tabs on their welfare. Using drugs definitely doesn’t fall into either category. “Why didn’tcha tell me?”

At the rise of Jason’s tone, Tim shows not a shred of agitation. “Got the tip from Steph, and then we all agreed that we wanna to keep this whole op on the down low,” he recounts, eyes darting to find Jason’s on the mirror. “Which means zero noise. Not of transmisson, and most definitely not of guns.”

Jason bristles at the not-so-subtle jab, tempted to rear forward and challenge Tim of his supposedly _noiseless_ operation. As it is, he knows virtually nothing of Tim’s latest crusade; aside from the fact that he goes through pretty extreme lengths to keep a certain charade—this _Thea_ that Jason’s only met mere minutes ago. “Coulda still told me,” he grumbles instead, nothing but compulsory posturing at this point.

The smile that Tim throws over his shoulder is genuine, shadowed by vermilion hair. “Not your official jurisdiction, Jay. That’s why I’ve been telling you to get the stamp of approval from B on the prostitution patrols. Would’ve let you in if that was the case,” he says, a gentle cadence to his words as if he’s consoling a pouty child. “Also yes, LSD’s my best guess,” Tim continues as he opens a sleek, rectangular compartment to reveal rows of what look like pressed powders. They’re mostly shades of brown; ranging from warm, light browns to intense dark chocolates. Tim dips the slender brush to a medium brown with cold undertones and does the tapping motion again. With what’s left on the brush, he proceeds to apply precise strokes on different areas of his face. The brush leaves lines of strategically placed shadows on the canvass of Tim’s face—his jawline, the bridge of his nose, the perimeter of his face, the slope of his cheekbones—and by the end of it, his already demure features have been softened up even further, lending a mask of femininity that looks all too convincing.

Between the strokes of his brush, Tim elaborates: “Whoever administers the drugs is good at wiping their tracks. Most of the workers I’ve talked to—the alleged victims—only complain of being lethargic after sex. They seem to remember most of what happened, but they also claim that full consent might not have been given for the more...extreme acts that they had been subjected to.”

“This is the work of this Andrej person?” Damian asks. Jason almost jumps at the sound of his voice because he’s been silent since they’ve all walked into the room.

Tim gives a halt to his movements, his eyes sliding heavenward as if contemplating Damian’s inquiry. “I may have to revise my earlier statement. Andrej is the one who runs the business, but he’s not my mark, not exactly. He’s more of a person of interest.”

“He’s innocent?”

“I haven’t ruled out the possibility of his involvement, but from what I’ve seen, I can’t see how he benefits from the drugs. Papa treats his workers fairly, and he’s been allowing the workers who were affected,” Tim closes the makeup case in his hand with a crisp click, “to take a break. His business is actually badly affected by this case.”

Jason can understand Tim’s logic, because it’s taken from one of Bruce’s oldest lessons. When solving a crime, one of the earlier questions should be: _who benefits?_ Who’s the one reaping the profit from the crime? In the scheme of crime, a person’s loss always signals another’s gain. Such is the prerequisite equilibrium.

“Papa isn’t the cleanest person in the scene,” Tim explains, “but if he was the one behind all this, I can’t see the logic behind it. He’s supposed to be smarter than that.”

Jason knows that they’re in the middle of a very important conversation, investigative in nature and all that, but when Tim uses that word _again,_ he really can’t be blamed for derailing.

“You actually call him _Papa_?” Jason blurts out, no longer able to resist scratching that particular itch. It isn’t— _weird,_ per se, just curious. Jason’s just curious, that’s all.

Tim lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “That’s his preferred nickname. He’s not a bad guy, all things considered. He keeps the workers clean and actually cares about their wellbeing—because it has direct connection to his earnings. He respects it when some of us draw the line at light touching.”

“Tim,” Dick speaks up again, his inflection heavy with concern. His _big brother_ voice. “I really don’t like this—”

“Don’t be a douche, Dick,” Tim snaps, “I don’t need you to worry about me or whatever. This is a mission, and I’m doing what’s necessary.”

Dick doesn’t raise his protest, but Jason knows better. There’s tightness marring the line of his jaw, a clear sign that his disapproval hasn’t been wavered; that it sits stagnant and unpleasant on the forefront of his mind. He moves to cross his arms, head cocked, defensive and inquisitive at the same time. Tim narrows his eyes at the gesture.

“He likes ‘em innocent,” Tim says, going into detail to satisfy Dick’s unspoken inquiry. “Well, he likes it when his girls _act_ innocent. It kind of helps, actually. He doesn’t seem interested in touching private bits; just shoulders, cheeks, legs,” Tim purses his lips, clearly hesitant, “mouth.”

Surprisingly, Damian is the first to react. “He touches _what?_ ”

“Chill,” Tim throws out, sounding far too unbothered for Jason’s liking. “Nothing I can’t handle. Besides, I’m one of his favorites now. It won’t be long until I get what I’m here for.”

Tim is silent for a while, leaning forward to have better view of how the eyeliner is applied on his eyes. Once the eyeliner locks into place, Jason sucks a breath at the difference it makes.

Tim’s eyes are the lightest shade out of all of them—the palest crystalline blue that does a better job expressing his mood than his whole face. Jason knows, because it greatly amuses him, how the light in Tim’s eyes dims whenever Tim is tired or disheartened, or how stars burst within their depths when an intriguing case is presented on the table. (That, or when his newest lego set arrives.)

The eyeliner sharpens his eyes, defining the edges and providing contrast to Tim’s arctic blues. It frames his eyes—his _emotions_ —a certain way, though Jason is still undecided on _how_ it works. Bizarrely, Jason likens the effect to their domino mask, secretly marveling at the way it deceives without concealing a thing.

No one speaks for an extended minute, maybe more. Jason doesn’t bother to count, but it’s enough time for Tim to finish his makeup. His mouth is now painted in a [color](http://www.charlottetilbury.com/uk/lipstickfinder/product/index/sku/LSTM35DX2R/skin/fair/tone/tone_2/finish/matte_revolution/shade/Sexy+Sienna) that ranges between pink and orange, sweet and soft on thin, pouty lips. (Jason is pretty sure that there’s an official name for that particular shade, but he sure as fuck doesn’t know what it is).

Sound has a way of amplifying itself in the quiet of a room. Jason gets a taste of how the wisdom applies when the mere sound of Tim’s chair scraping against the floor startles him.

“Might as well,” Tim mutters under his breath, takes a second to stretch, and inclines his head, framed blue eyes meeting Jason’s own. He turns around to approach them, dress rustling softly as the fabric flirts with air. The nearly soundless taps of his bare feet on linoleum are rhythmic, almost hypnotic. Jason’s gaze inevitably falls on Tim’s figure as he stalks forward, taking note on how pools of yellowish light spill on pale skin; how the careless sway of his hips offsets the intensity in arctic blue depths.

Tim says nothing when he stops right in front of them, and keeps his silence when he turns around, presenting the view of his back.

“Help me out of this,” slips out of colored lips, and Jason chokes on his own spit while Dick lets out a scandalous _what?_ Damian only rears back in quiet surprise, but his eyes speak what his mouth doesn’t. The green of his irises appears even wilder, a brilliant verdant under crappy lighting.

“Unzip it,” Tim says, casual. Upon the stillness that follows, he has the gall to laugh. “C’mon guys, it’s not rocket science. There’s a little zipper right on top of the dress; drag it down.”

Embarrassingly enough, the much-needed clarification spurs them into action. Jason stretches his hand to search for the zipper, and has to halt his movements when his hand almost bumps with Damian’s. They look at each other with wide eyes, all too aware of the way Dick’s gaze slides between their outstretched limbs, astonished and incredulous at the same time.

Jason catches the soft puff of breath that escapes Tim’s lips, and the quip at the tip of his tongue disappears when he takes in Tim’s expression. He has his eyes closed, almost solemn, if not for the way he’s wringing his hands together, pinching his own fingers in a restless bout.

Jason doesn’t know if it’s the result of Robin training, or years together on the field, or the fucking metaphorical _bat-bond_ between them, but three sets of hands manage to work together; silent and efficient. Jason is the one to gather the red of Tim’s hair—wig, it’s a _wig_ —in his grip, brushing the strands aside to make way for Dick’s fingers, clamping around the tiny as fuck zipper to drag it down. Damian isn’t idle, his hands absurdly gentle on the fabric of Tim’s dress as he tugs it this way and that, preventing unwanted snags and making sure that the zipper glides through its teeth without a hitch.

The air that surrounds them is tense, and Jason wonders why. Seeing as they’ve seen each other naked more than he cares to count—the cave is fancy as fuck, but privacy is still a thing of luxury—it should be no big deal, undressing Tim like this. Maybe it’s the dim lighting or the unfamiliar backdrop, amplifying the unknown. Jason holds the air in his lungs, unwilling to let it go just yet.

Surprisingly, the thing that eases his breathing turns to be the sight of Tim’s exposed back. Tim doesn’t bother to put concealer on his back, so the scars he’s accumulated along the years are in full view. They crisscross on top of each other, old and new, forming a map that connects each one to an event.

It’s a touch of familiarity in foreign waters.

Perhaps he should find it ironic, the fact that he’s been consoled by something as incongruous as _scars._ Jason twists his mouth and stags that up to pit aftereffects.

“Thank you,” Tim whispers, and quickly makes a beeline toward a screen door just a foot away. Shuffling sounds can be heard from behind the thin fabric, and Jason tries his _hardest_ not to be intrigued. A small, traitorous part of him still muses: what kind of dress has he chosen for this performance? How will it fall on Tim’s figure?

He gets his answers when Tim eventually emerges, this time in a long, beige [dress](https://id.pinterest.com/pin/720576009101957597/) that reaches past his feet. The material of it sweeps along the floor, light and elegant. There are flowers sewn onto the waist and hips area, varying in size and color. Jason knows fuck all about fashion, but even he can tell that Tim has chosen well.

 _Thea,_ Jason peruses, and wonders if he’d be stepping out of line if he was to address Tim as such in this private setting. Jason almost feels compelled to do so, on the basis that it seems—very fitting.

Tim busies himself for a hot minute, patting along his body to check for snags and creases on his dress. Finding none, he fiddles with strands of fiery red hair and addresses his brothers.

“So is there a way to make you all go home and let me handle this in peace?”

“Do you really think we’d follow your commands like mindless cattle?” Damian demands, the loudest he’s spoken for the whole night.

Tim rolls his eyes, moving to a corner of the room that has boxes stacked on top of each other. “Thought so,” he mumbles as he picks a white one out of the precariously balanced pile. It houses a pair of classic high heels in the same color as his dress. As he puts them on—with zero to no efforts, Jason notes—Tim continues. “Here’s the deal: Pap—Andrej’s going to watch my performance tonight, so you can see for yourselves just what kind of person he is.” He straightens, standing at full height. Elevated by the heels, he’s a tad taller than Damian. “How harmless he is.”

From the periphery of his vision, Jason catches Dick’s eyes. He seems conflicted. For all his speech of respecting Tim’s autonomy, he looks the most reluctant of leaving the situation as it is—with Tim putting himself at risk in unknown waters, and as far as they know, with no one around to back him up. Dick sighs. “Nobody said anything about a deal, Timmy,” he says, but the acquiescence is obvious in his tenor.

“Take it or leave it,” Tim counters, eyes hard.

None of them seem to be interested to debate it further, so Jason wraps it up. “‘kay,” he exhales. “Okay. But if he steps outta line—”

“I’ll destroy his crotch,” Tim counters without preamble. “We love kneeing balls in this household.”

Dick is already succumbing into waves of laughter by the time Jason manages to get his bearings. The quip was delivered casually, almost toneless, in true Tim fashion. But this Tim is currently wearing flawless makeup and a beautiful dress, red weave trailing down his back in elegant waves. Jason can’t really blame Dick for hacking his lungs out.

Or for Damian to make a face like he just ate something unsavory, as if thoroughly reminded that the person standing in front of him is, ultimately, Tim Drake.

It just makes Jason feel relieved, more than anything.

He chuckles, makes sure to tiptoe the line between jest and seriousness when he says, “fer real, though. We’ll be watchin’.”

Tim’s eyes blaze, but this time without animosity. He strides forward, steady and confident in a façade that books no room for cracks or imperfection. At that moment, Jason is reminded of how powerful he truly is, residing comfortably in the discord between beauty and lethality. In a sense, his brand of power is more dangerous than any of theirs.

“Do not. Make a scene.” Tim warns, and is suddenly gone in a flurry of red and beige.

 

***

 

Next time they see him, he’s standing on top of the stage.

Jason notices how the dress transforms under decent lighting, intricate details coming into view once illuminated properly. Judging by the way the crowd erupts into cheers as soon as Tim takes center stage, he’s made quite a name for himself. To complement the enthusiasm, Tim gives a little wave at the small crowd, fluttery and a little bashful.

“Good evening,” he says, smiling pleasantly. “Thank you all for coming. I’m Thea, and I’ll be your singer for the night. This song was requested by the fine gentleman sitting in the seat of honor.” He gestures at a table by the side of the stage, obscured by the shadows that fall upon it. Someone on the table says something, prompting a giggle out of Tim. “Oh, Papa,” he says, the microphone catching every word, “you asked for it because you know it’s my favorite. You spoil me too much.”

Muffling his scowl behind a lit cigarette, Jason catches movement from the periphery of his vision. It’s Dick, who is overly tense by his side. He’s holding back the worst of his impulses, Jason can easily tell. He can also empathize, but does nothing for the time being. The tides are still in their favor, and he has no doubt that his brothers would be right there with him if that wasn’t the case anymore.

Jason blinks and returns his attention to the stage.

Tim nods at the keyboardist behind him, grabbing the microphone This part, Jason must admit, is the one he’s been anticipating the most. Jason has never heard him sing, so nothing could have prepared him for when Tim opens his mouth.

 

 _Every Saturday night I get dressed up to ride for you, baby_  
Cruising down the street on Hollywood and Vine for you, baby  
I drive fast, wind in my hair, I push you to the limits ‘cause I just don’t care  
You ask me where I been?  
I’ve been everywhere  
I don’t wanna be nowhere but here  
(Come on, tell me boy)  


 

His singing flows to greet the piano intro, equally haunting and unexpectedly low-pitched. Jason gapes, can’t help to do so when Tim exceeds all of his expectations. The awareness that Tim must be able to sing is there, next to the logic behind Tim being undercover as a _singer,_ but the way he performs throws Jason’s world off its axis. There’s a sense of surrender that he emits, allowing the song and the stage to encompass him whole, fitting a different persona onto his being.

And then, the epiphany arrives like a flock of doves, settling quietly and peacefully upon Jason’s consciousness. The one Jason had been seeing—that one’s not Thea, at least not wholly. This one is Thea, the girl who stands under stage light to wilt in full bloom.

 

 _I drive fast, radio blares, have to touch myself to pretend you’re there_  
Your hands were on my hips, your name is on my lips  
Over over again, like my only prayer  


 

With hands clasped in front of his heart—a supplication—Tim sings. Conveying the message through his voice and gestures. Jason wonders if he practiced it in front of his mirror. If there were still traces of Tim within Thea.

 

_I’m driving fast, flash, everyone knows it_  
_I’m trying to get to you, baby_  
_I’m feeling scared and you know it_

 

He’s not sure if he’s affected by Tim’s breathlessness, the longing saturated within the lyrics, the melancholic cadence of the melody, or the dim, eerie lighting, but Jason’s brain supplies him with images of Tim on his modified Ducati. The details come to mind; the clench of his hand on the handlebars, the slight frame of his body, how his shoulders flow into the lonely curve of his back. During the hardest period of Tim’s life, Jason often sees him atop the vehicle, cruising to an unknown location.

At that time, Jason had done nothing but observe.

In contrast to the other Robins, Tim matures quietly, and that’s also how he projects his sadness—quietly. When it comes to any other emotions, he’s an array of colors: vibrant red bleed into his anger; black, when a hint of darkness clouds over his judgement. There’s also flashes of rare green, gleaned on moments of peace and quiet, the only times Tim truly looks his age.

All these colors, but his sadness remains a flicker that sparks in and out of existence. Gone before anyone can manage to get a glimpse of it.

Tim wears melancholy like he would a necklace. One of those ridiculously tiny ones, with thin metal chain that digs into the bone of his collars. It’s inconspicuous except for when you actively look for it. And even then, Tim would have put his walls back up—meticulously on guard.

When Jason comes back to himself, the last note has faded into background, a mere static behind the roar of cheers and applause.

“Bravo, bravo!” someone yells, voice full of devotion.

Tim walks off the stage with a little bounce in his steps, hair bouncing and dress aflutter. A man, someone Jason assumes to be Perkins, is there to meet him, arms spread to accommodate Tim’s smaller frame.

“Thea, my darling,” he croons, picking Tim up by his waist to twirl him around. “My talented, beautiful songbird. My world was a bleak, cold place until you open that pretty mouth of yours. How do you make such beautiful sounds?”

Tim—or is it _Thea?_ It’s hard to draw the line when the act is that convincing—preens under the attention. “Stop it, Papa,” he complains around a laugh, swatting at Perkins’ shoulder to demand to be put down. When his feet finally touch the ground, he’s still looking up at the man, eyes twinkling.

Jason tempers down an irrational flare of anger, reminding himself that it’s all just pretend. A play pretend that Tim excels in, so much that it befuddles the eye of the beholder. A play that he excels in, so there’s no way for him to lose in his own game.

It happens in mere nanoseconds, but their gazes clash. Thea is wearing Tim’s eyes as it transpires, pale blue gleaming with wit and intent. _You satisfied?_ They seem to say, _you’re got nothing to worry about._

Jason twists an unlit cigarette, thin paper shredding under his fingers. _I still worry,_ he doesn’t say. 

 

*** 

 

Dick, Jason, and Damian settle into their respective positions in the car—Jason at the wheel, Dick riding shotgun, and Damian at the back—without as much as a puff of air leaving their mouths. Breaths held in, hearts beating within the same intervals, metronomes echoing off of each other. Jason concentrates on driving to dislodge the feeling. It doesn’t work.

“He’s undercover as a _singer,_ Dick,” Jason finally snaps, feeling the beginnings of annoyance settle low in his belly. “And I don’t like seein’ that Papa guy gettin’ all _liberal_ with his hands, either, but at least he runs the business proper.”

That reasoning doesn’t seem to appease Dick, but at least he grows silent. It looks like he knows better than to argue with Jason—the one who practically breathes, lives in, and exhales the streets of Gotham—but chooses to keep the displeased front. Just to show how much he disagrees.

Sometimes, Jason marvels at how similar to Bruce they all are.

“Will you quit your yapping,” Damian says from his seat at the back. “None of us finds this situation to be pleasing, but Drake isn’t an invalid.”

Damian’s scowling even as he seemingly sides with Tim, gaze zeroed in on the view outside his window. Gotham’s starless night striated with flashes of neon. It’s almost therapeutic, in a way, so Jason follows his brilliant example and focuses on the road ahead.

A trickle of moment, and then.

“I feel like a failure,” Dick says quietly. It’s almost cutting in its abruptness, but Jason has kind of been expecting it.

“How so?” He decides to humor Dick, even though something in his gut argues that it’s not a wise decision.

“As a partner, as a brother,” Dick pauses, takes a few beats to steady his breathing. “I’ve never truly realized just how sad he was. How lonely he used to feel. Is he,” he breathes, words caught between tongue and teeth and hesitation. “Does he still feel that way? In the moments he’s all alone?”

No one supplies him with a reply, negation or confirmation. It’s just—silence, once again. The loud kind, one that buzzes in their heads, making friends and dancing merrily with unanswered questions.

 

***

 

Jason’s next encounter with Tim happens on a Wednesday night. He’s in the middle of stripping himself of his thigh holsters when signs of activity from his corner of the batcave signal him of Tim’s presence. Unsurprisingly, the younger man is the middle of work, stationed in front of his computer as he types something in. A report, most likely, of the LSD case that he finished brilliantly, all by his own. Tim isn’t in a hurry, if the lazy, almost droning sound of his keyboard is anything to go by.

“Hiya, Timmers,” Jason greets out of habit, to which Tim gives a small wave in return. Jason knows better than to bother him when he’s all focused, so he returns to his own business and continues to rid himself of his gadgets and buckles.

Moments later, a relieved moan can be heard from the general direction of Tim’s work table. Knowing full well that Tim is done with paperwork, Jason proceeds with what he’s been wanting to do.

“Songbird,” Jason says around a smirk, loud enough to be heard across the floor.

Tim swivels in his seat, his front now facing Jason. A sliver of skin peeks through the gap between his dress and knee-length socks. Almost clinically, Jason notes how pale he looks under the dim, silvery lighting of the cave.

“You gonna use that to tease me from now on?” Tim asks playfully, chin propped up on one knee.

Letting out a laugh, Jason shakes his head. “Nah. It’s a compliment, Timmers. Take it as it is.”

The moment of silence is filled with the weight of Tim’s gaze on Jason. The older man resists the urge to fidget. “You’re not lying,” he observes, eyes wide in surprise.

“Yer a real great singer, y’know,” Jason says truthfully, “I ain’t gonna deny you that.”

“Thank you.”

His response is softer— _weaker_ than usual, lacking the steely edge that’s characteristic of him. There’s something clouding Tim’s disposition—something mellow, an emotion that Jason can’t quite place. Not without moving closer.

Jason is a creature of instinct, so he follows the tug in his gut and walks forward. Tim stays immobile in his seat, doing nothing but breathing, and Jason takes it as a sign that his presence is welcome in the room, within his personal bubble. He stops just behind the large swivel chair, bends down so his head hovers over the top of it, and observes the younger bat.  

“Who am I seeing right now,” Jason inquires, softly, believing that Tim would catch on.

A flash of pale pink, shaped like the curve of Tim’s lips, is the preamble to his response. “Timothy, Thea,” he says, “both of them. Any of them. Does that bother you?”

In the wake of the question, Jason ponders. He’s been doing that a lot lately, much more than he’s used to. Within the trickles of silence, he silently realizes that Tim Drake has that effect on him. This person—his predictable habits, his complex mind, his very _existence_ —coaxes Jason’s thoughts into spirals of inquiries, varying in nature and intensity.

As Jason arranges his feelings, Tim twitches in his seat. It appears like he can’t bear the absence of noise, because he sighs into stagnant air.

“Timothy, Thea, him, her,” he pauses, “they, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Huh,” Jason finally voices out, a contemplative hand on his chin. It’s unusual, yes, but also an easy enough concept. Jason can roll with that. “So I’ve got this pain in the ass of a brother. Her name’s Tim, but you can also call them Thea. They ain’t picky, but that’s ‘cause she’s an emotionally stunted potato. Kinda cool guy, though, just give ‘im coffee on the daily.”

By the time Jason’s finished his little monologue, Tim’s breath catches, wetly and audibly. His eyes resemble cyan marbles, wide and stunned. He blinks rapidly before fixing his gaze at a point beyond Jason’s shoulder, eyes glassy and far-off. He keeps gnawing on his bottom lip, cutting a white line on pink flesh. There’s a strange feeling that Tim isn’t quite—present, not just yet, like he’s somewhere inside of his brain, processing the information and rummaging around for God knows what.

Jason steps back to give him the much needed space. He’s pointedly aware that in a normal, day-to-day setting, he wouldn’t be able to dredge up enough patience to do this—standing immobile and passive while he waits. But he also knows that this is important for Tim, and Jason’s not about to rush him.

So he plops his butt on the sleek, all-black table that spews fancy holographic models—usually utilized by Bruce to give them visuals on missions—and waits.

There’s no place for a clock to be ticking within the cave’s high-tech, gadget-riddled environment, but Jason sort of hears it all the same. Hears it ticking away in anticipation of Tim’s next words, because Jason may be courteous, but he’s also curious. By the nth tick, something that looks like disbelief filters slowly through Tim’s expression. His throat moves convulsively to gulp down moisture. A hint of panic runs a tender riot across his features, lasting for all five seconds before he finally attempts to regain his bearings.

Even from a distance, Jason can see how he— _they, she_ —flushes, eyes sliding slowly to where Jason’s reclining. Their lips are slightly redder from all the biting, and they tremble around his words.

“If,” Tim hesitates, hands limp upon their lap, “if you happen to meet Dick and, or, Dami, it’s okay to,” a quick inhalation, “to tell them what you told me.”

Jason quirks an eyebrow, amused at how Tim managed to make Jason the focus of the request instead of himself. Tim would deny that it was a request at all, but Jason is in a good enough mood not to call him out on it. “The one about Thea n’ Tim?” He asks back, just to make sure.

Tim gives him a nod. And yet, for some reason, Jason wants him to say it. Jason’s a verbal person, sue him.

“You sure you want that, babybird?”

Tim gives a tilt of their head, hoop earring grazing a pale shoulder.

“I—” Tim stumbles, clears her throat. In a much clearer voice, he finally admits that: “I’d love that.”

 _Oh,_ Jason thinks, _he wants ‘em to know._

“No worries,” Jason grins, can’t resist tacking on a, “ _songbird._ Imma be yer messenger. Free of charge.”

Tim laughs, a single sound that tinkles around the space between them, not unlike a bell. He sounds relieved—happy. Happiness looks good on them, Jason decides with finality.

“Thank you, Jason,” she says, her voice carrying Thea’s airy quality and Tim’s tired rasp. Both of them blur into a single voice, one Jason can comfortably identify by now. Jason finds it to be pleasant. Unique and distinct, an augmentation of the Tim he’s familiar with.

“No problem,” he replies easily, a boyish smile settling on his features. He lifts a hand to signal at the exit of the cave. “I’ll leave ya now, Timmy,” he declares, “gonna make fajitas for dinner.”

Tim perks up and practically leaps from her seat, nimble feet skittering across the floor.

“You should’ve told me earlier!” They demand, head tilted up to make up for their height difference. Jason lets out a rollicking, hearty laugh. Easy as anything, he reaches forward to mess with tufts of already unruly raven hair.

“Thought we were havin’ a _serious_ conversation, babybird,” Jason teases, “sure you wanna follow up with fajitas?”

The scowl on Tim’s face is indignant, puffing up his cheeks. “The heck’s wrong with that?” They protest, “give ‘em political leaders at the UN some fajitas during conferences, and they wouldn’t dare talk about damned nuclear or napalm or any variations thereof. Or wars in general.”

“Fajitas for world peace,” Jason declares, balling one of his fists. “Abuela’s recipe works its magic.”

Tim meets the invitation, but as their fists bump, he amends, “actually I kinda wanna send ‘em all to the hospital and empty the quarters, y’know.” Her voice drops into a diabolical whisper. “Let the world run itself for once.”

As they make their way up the stairs, Jason exclaims, “anarchy! Never thought you had it in you, nerd boy,” —a dramatic shake of his head, and then Jason follows with, “such blasphemy.”

With an exaggerated pout, Tim blinks up at Jason. “I make blasphemy look so pretty, though.”

Jason can’t resist the waves of pure joy that invades his chest at the casual, albeit ridiculous reply. It’s an exalting experience, seeing Tim like this; so at home and comfortable in his own skin. It’s not like Jason’s never seen them in a happy place; he has, numerous times. But there’s a different tint to this one, something that correlates with Tim’s current state, as seen through Jason’s eyes. The person walking beside him, bolstered by the facets and identities that form him, _(them, her,)_ whole at last.

With a lighter heart, Jason acquiesces. “That you are,” he says, relishing in the way Tim’s answering grin lights up her face. “That you are, songbird.”

**Author's Note:**

> And there u go! Sorry if this was weird n trippy (and the Jaytim was so minuscule orz) bc this was originally a shitty character study that developed itself into a full-blown oneshot. Also! Even tho I inserted Burning Desire’s lyrics in this fic, funnily enough I was listening to Yayo within the whole five hrs that I spent on this lol.
> 
> As usual, reviews are love<3
> 
> PS. I tried bringing up the issue of gender fluidity in this one. Only briefly, bc tbh I haven’t read and/or seen enough to go into much detail. Tim is gender fluid in this piece, and he doesn’t prefer any pronoun in particular. He doesn’t declare it “officially” until nearing the end it, and I hope that the way his identity is portrayed doesn’t offend anyone :")) but pls come forth n point any flaw u find omg I’m always open to con-crit bc truly, there is always room to reflect n grow.


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